[CENTER][sup][h1][img]https://imgs.search.brave.com/PUA4r3zAA181OZqhL5p1EGpJAITlG8Xi51IiJLgj1aE/rs:fit:860:0:0:0/g:ce/aHR0cHM6Ly9tZWRp/YS5nZXR0eWltYWdl/cy5jb20vaWQvMTg2/ODQ4MzE5MS9waG90/by9zY2VuaWMtdmll/dy1vZi1hZ3JpY3Vs/dHVyYWwtZmllbGQt/YWdhaW5zdC1za3kt/bWlubmVzb3RhLXVu/aXRlZC1zdGF0ZXMt/dXNhLmpwZz9zPTYx/Mng2MTImdz0wJms9/MjAmYz03OUJValVt/dmlYZ3RPRTluRG16/ckhSWGlvdmxPdGVW/NE9qZ0NLV0U0eWlZ/PQ[/img] [b][color=f26522]T H E R E A C H[/color][/b][/h1][/sup] [/CENTER] The dusty road rose before him, trailing ever eastward towards destiny and victory. Behind him came the Marchermen, and march they did. Dressed in orange and brown and upon their heads bright red caps of wool. They carried yew bows, wicked billhooks and banners the color of molten rock. Their booted feet stamped the dirt sending up a great cloud of dust and as they marched they sang. Songs of a hundred verses written to keep a steady pace and a valiant heart. In their hands and draped over their backs were the emblems of vanquished houses, Lannister lions and purple Plumm and the cock of Swyft amongst many others. They shamed these captured standards, holding them ever below the orange of House Peake in a display of conquest. Above all the others and in the forefront, rose a massive vexillium of ruby red cloth like a mighty square sail on a ship's mast, supported by three marching men. On its embroidered fabrics curled a great black dragon of House Blackfyre, King and conqueror. At the head of the long column rode Lord Gormon Peake upon a black palfrey. Surrounded on all sides by his sworn knights in the vanguard who displayed their proud colors on their tabards in hunters orange, rusty red, brilliant yellow, and brightest blue. A wagon train trailed the marching host and finally in the very rear came the hedge knights and mercenary cavalry in rearguard. They traveled too fast for campfollowers, as Lord Peake pushed his cohort to their limit. Three thousand told they were a formidable force though only a fraction of the army that gathered beneath the Black Dragon banner in total. They had parted from Fireball and his host following the victory in the Westerlands. The tactful general having split the overall army into manageable pieces to ease the logistical strain. They took separate roads through the Reach. Close enough to gather in number should word be sent, but far enough apart they did not make a wasteland of their neighbor’s fiefs. They passed through neutral territory, some friendly and sympathetic, others wary and cowed, but whether potential ally or foe it would not be wise to make enemies of them all. On Gormon’s left rode his son Able, a lad of thirteen, strong and tall already despite his tender years. He wore the colors of his father’s house in obvious pride and he kept his bay palfrey close at hand. In his grip he carried the warbanner of House Peake, the wooden lance upon which the great banner flew strained in his grasp, ever threatening to escape on the noon breeze but kept in check by the steady youth. On the right rode Ser Neville Tottington, an older knight and Gormon’s most trusted advisor. He commanded the vanguard and his aggressive nature complimented Gormon’s own fierce initiative. Able and Tottington had joined in the song that reverberated from three thousand throats, off tune and and having no accompanying instruments they did not do the verses justice, but they raised their voices and sang with gusto and vigor. [i]“Ho all to the borders, the marchers come down. With your trousers of sheepskin and tunics of brown. With your red woolen caps, and your weaponry come. To the gathering summons of trumpets and drums. Come down with your longbow, let brown wolf and fox. Howl on in the shadows of primitive rocks. Let lions feed securely from your sheep flocks and stalls. Here's Dornishmen foe for your arrows and call. So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer. And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer. From the north came the dragons, our land to police. While armed for the battle, they canted of peace. From the east came the Dornish, the sand blooded band. To hang up our leaders and eat up our lands. Ho all to the battle for the warriors stand firm. No gains for the armies of Sunspear shall earn. They crave our possessions, these pitiful knaves. The tribute they gain shall be blood and graves. So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer. And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer. You may have our fealty if we bow to your throne It must be won by the iron and blood of your own. Our lords themselves are our own fellow kin. Who can handle the sword and the lance in the din. Hurrah for the March, this land that we till. Must have sons to defend her, from valley and hill. Our vow is recorded our banners unfurl. In the name of the March we defy all the world! So Cheer, cheer the Reach Mountaineer. And Cheer Cheer the Reach Mountaineer.”[/i] “Riders my lord, from the east and at pace.” Ser Neville had ceased singing, his sharp eyes spotting movement ahead above the rise of the hill. Gormon spotted them soon after, two men riding fast. At once he recognized the tabard that marked his younger brother and the dull green of the scout Ser Patryk Pax. Ser Unwin Peake, Gormon’s wily younger brother commanded the outriders, keeping watchful eyes all around in host for leagues ahead. They could never be blind, Marcher men paid in blood for the folly of military conceit. Unwin also trained Able as his squire, though the boy did not yet have the skills needed for the vital military intelligence that the outriders provided. Moreover Gormon preferred his son close at hand where an eye could be kept on the boy. Knowing his brother would not abandon his duties on a whim Gormon leaned back in his saddle bringing the stirrups forward, never bothering to touch the reins. His horse stopped at once. Pressing two fingers from each hand into his mouth Gormon unleashed a long piercing whistle that rang out above the singing. He spat after, his fingers tasted of horse. Another rider nearby responded at once to the whistle, bringing a horn to his lips and sounding out a dull blast that brought the march to halt. Like a great ungainly beast the column ceased in song and step. Men at arms hefted their spears and yeomen began stringing their longbows and checking their arrows. Ninety to each archer, tipped in steel and feathered by dornish geese. They were blooded veterans now, baptized by the Warrior in battle against Westermen hosts and well versed in such martial necessities. If enemies were upon them soon the Marchers would be ready. “Ser Tottington, Ser Sootman, Able join me.” Gormon drove his spurs into the palfrey’s dark flanks, stirring the horse into a gallop. His son and knights rode out from the stationary host meeting Unwin and Patryk at the base of the hill. The two outriders were flushed and hot, their horses sweating from a spirited ride, but they seemed unafraid, only excited. Able offered the two men wineskins from which they drank deeply. “Banners my brother.” Unwin reported once he refreshed himself enough to speak. “A league and a half to the east along this very road marching west. They fly brown standards emblazoned by golden wheat, and are in good order. How many would you say Ser Pax?” The little man who’d rode alongside Unwin squinted his brown eyes, scrunching up his face in concentration. “Twas difficult to count, we were harried by their own outriders, just as we’re harrying theirs keeping them away from your men my lord. Can’t have been more than four grand total. A great assemblage of knights, maybe four hundred horse and lance all told. Twas a quick count.” “Able,” Gormon grunted, turning to look at his son who seemed surprised to be addressed. “You heard the scouts description, yes? Whose army approaches us?” After a moment of hesitation Able responded. “Lord Selmy of Harvest Hall, no doubt. His banner is golden wheat on a brown field. He is a Marcher like us, an ally?” “Mayhaps,” Ser Neville huffed. “Though he certainly took his time rousing himself. We’ll have to turn him around, the battle is already won in the West.” “A Stormlander.” Gormon cautioned. “He may be of Marcher blood, yet Lord Selmy takes his oaths seriously no matter Daeron’s corruption and broken promises. He will not be easily convinced to turn his cloak to the Blackfyre cause. Did you see any dragons flying above his standard?” “Nay,” Unwin provided. The Peakes themselves flew the Black dragon in full view, there could be no doubting their allegiance. Where they marched the people knew they served the true king of Westeros. A bastard born, but a warrior forged. “Nary a red or black to be seen. Seems he wishes to maintain a level of anonymity, the craven. Upon your leave brother I will approach them under a sign of truce and discover whether we need paint these hills red with Selmy blood or welcome them as true Marcher kin.” “I should go as well, my cousin Ser Nygel Tottington rides amongst Lord Selmy’s knights. He is a good man and will not allow the others to be harmed under the sign of truce.” Tottington offered his white whiskers bristling. “You’ll need your squire Ser.” Able said at once to Unwin. “To carry your banner and see to your horses whilst talks are underway.” Gormon twitched at this, his flinty grey eyes darting over towards his audacious progeny. “I ought go too.” Ser Patryk Pax spoke up, hand on his sword hilt. “A calming presence would be needed to keep all these hotheaded heroes in check.” A scowl appeared on Gormon’s face and he shook his head in resigned consternation. “The Others take you all and your bravado! Shall I deliver all my best men into Selmy’s hand? Should he deem you traitors and capture you I will be undone. Ser Sootman, will you ride out as well and leave me hiding behind my army whilst my bravest take all the risk? Leave me alone to rescue the hostages so willingly given?” “No.” The dark quiet knight said in response and left it at that. Ser Sootman bandied few words, he let his lance hold his conversations for him and the results were a bloody affair. He commanded the hedge knights and mercenary elements and kept them fearful and well in order. “Right, then you three.” Gormon gestured for the trio of knights who had volunteered. “Will bring my warm greetings to Lord Selmy and a spare black dragon banner, and bid he raise it up amongst his own standards or face us in the field.” “Cheer cheer!” Shouted the three knights in chorus. “Please father.” Gormon felt a tug at the sleeve of his gambeson, Able had taken note of the absent permission to go. For a moment the fatherly protective instincts rose up in Gormon, and he made to command Able to remain alongside him and never to question his decisions. The rebuke never left his tongue. Able wished to demonstrate his daring, and take risks as Gormon would have done in his youth. He would heed orders if commanded, but he would be embittered. A warning notion crossed Gormon’s mind, and he wondered if he could turn his gaze away and allow his son to be slain as a hostage if it came to that. The realm and his bastard king, or his own blood. A test, Gormon realized, not just of Able’s courage but his own as a father. These were times of war, and a young man could never prove himself if his elders kept him under constant observation and guard. Steeling himself Gormon nodded his assent and the boy beamed.